Untitled
by LaceyBird
Summary: Plotless. One shot, possibly not. Please R R.


**AN: Here's just something I found on my laptop during a clear out, and figured I'd post it. It's been a while since I've taken the time to sit and write, and I've missed it, so I may get a second half of this out shortly! I have some other unfinished pieces I'm sorting through too, and hopefully I'll have them done soon, also!**

**I don't own 'Our Girl'. If I did – there would have been a helluva lot more than 5 episodes, and a whole lot more of _everything._ **

**Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own! **

**Please read and review! **

**Lacey**

**xox**

* * *

**Untitled**

"Ugh." Molly groans softly, as she twists her face into the feather pillow beneath her head; an attempt to block out the early morning rays as they filter through the Venetian blinds hanging in the bedroom window. "I can smell coffee," she complains, her brows creasing slightly, as she tries to make sense of the rich aroma of the familiar Columbian coffee beans intent on assaulting her nostrils. "_Why_ can I smell coffee?"

She waits, impatiently, for a reply to come from the other side of the bed. Three breaths and a heavy silence pass, before she twists her body, her arm reaching out for Charles but is met with nothing but a cold, stark bed sheet, because he isn't there. Molly peels back heavy lids, doesn't give her eyes time to adjust to the light, flicks them over to the empty side of the bed, briefly passing over the steaming mug on the night stand. She frowns, beginning to fully wake as she props herself up onto her elbows, listening intently to the peaceful quiet that is usual for the James' household, and a roaring contrast to Molly's home in London.

She glances at the glowing clock on her night stand – it reads a few minutes after five AM – the time only adding another element of confusion. Molly pushes herself to sit up, rubs the sleep from her stinging eyes and forces herself to suppress a yawn as her eyes fall on the ajar door to the bathroom. Holding her breath, she leans forward slightly, listening harder. She can barely detect the hushed, familiar voice coming from inside, but it's enough to have her tossing back the duvet covering her bare legs and tiptoeing across the plush cream carpet towards the on-suite. She reaches out, pushes the bathroom door softly so it swings open slowly, the hinges squeaking.

Charles is standing in the middle of the bathroom, head bowed as fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, his mobile phone pressed to her ear, eyes squeezed shut. He huffs a sigh, his shoulders tense, before shaking his head and mumbling something too quiet for Molly to understand. His voice is rough with sleep, husky as he strains to keep it low; to avoid waking her, Molly assumes.

As if he can sense her watching him, his head lifts up, lids peel back and red rimmed eyes glance over her body – over wild hair, scans her tired, pale face, down over his shirt that she's taken to wearing to bed; the one that's just short enough to tease a flash of red laced panties – before lifting up to lock on with her green ones. He offers her a small, apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he breathes, barely a whisper. Molly shakes her head at the apology, curiosity niggling as she traces the deep creases on his forehead. She doesn't like the way his brows are pulling together, how he seems pained by the words echoing through the handset into his ear, how he seems to be ageing before her eyes at the burden of the call. She steps forward, holds out her hand for him to take – which he does, albeit hesitantly – and leads him back into the bedroom, only slipping her hand from his so they can climb back into bed.

Charles leans back against the headboard, phone still pressed to his ear, making subtle noises of agreement, as Molly scoots over next to him and tucks herself into his side, rests her head against his shoulder.

"Mmhmm," he murmurs softly, before dropping a kiss on the top of Molly's head as his free hands lifts the hem of the shirt she's wearing so he can trace lazy circles on the small of her back. "No, it's fine, Mrs Matthews." There's another pause, another sigh, and when Molly looks up at Charles' face, the worry lines have deepened and his eyes are closed again. "No, I completely understand. Yes, of course I'll be there." Heavy eyelids retreat, and his eyes drop to meet her inquisitive ones. "Yes, purple is perfect. Yes, I'm sure. No, Mrs – _Effie _– you can call any time." Another pause, and his hand stills at her back, palm presses against hot skin, muscles tense, rock like. A deep breath, a shallow nod. "Yes, Ma'am, Trevor was a good man."

It's Molly's turn to tense; an automatic reaction to Charles' tortured words as they echo through her mind as she tries to recall anyone by the name of Trevor Matthews. She can't though, which doesn't help any, because Molly can tell by the aching expression that's masking his face, that Charles was not only familiar with Trevor Matthews, he'd cared deeply for him, too.

Molly attempts, and fails, to suppress the yawn that's itching to escape, because she can't remember the last time she'd gotten a decent nights sleep; her stint in Afghanistan and losing her best friend all within the same year has left it's scars on her brain, and dreams become nightmares more often that not. Charles jerks his head to nod at her pillow, silently telling her to lay back down, go back off, but she's shaking her head no, shifts her body closer to his as she plants a kiss on his bare chest to reaffirm that she's here for him.

"I know, I know," he says, mouth twitching slightly; a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure it's fine. Yeah, he'd have loved it. Yes, I promise I'll be there." Another pause, a deep breath. "I know, Ma'am. And I'm sorry for your loss. Good bye." Charles ends the call, tosses his mobile somewhere on the bed, before rubbing his free hand through his hair, down over his face. Molly waits for a few seconds, allows him the time to process the call, to see if he's going to offer her any information.

"Are you okay?" she asks when Charles doesn't speak, his attention focused somewhere far away. He blinks, looks down at her as he tries to pull her closer to him, so there isn't an inch between them.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," he apologizes, his voice soft, tone gentle. Molly shakes her head, doesn't say anything more as her eyes trace Charles' face, search his eyes for the answers to the questions she wants to ask, waits patiently as Charles sifts through his mind to try and find a way of sharing what's happened without revealing the emotions he still feels a little uncomfortable sharing. "One of the guys from my second platoon passed away last week," he finally says, and whilst he may think he sounds casual enough as he relays the news, Molly can hear, sense, the grief that burdens his shoulders, is threatening to crush his chest, even if he won't admit it.

"Oh," Molly says, pauses as she reaches to rest her hand on his chest, offering a little comfort. "I'm so sorry, Charlie." His hand squeezes hers in way of thanking her for the condolences, even if he casually shrugs it off, as if it's something they should be expecting, as if a friend dying is a standard, every day occurrence in their lives. "When's the funeral?"

"This afternoon," he answers, heaves in a lungful of air, clears his throat. "I'll be leaving in a couple of hours. He lives in Cornwall, so..." he trails off, leaving Molly to fill in the blanks, as if she knows what he isn't saying. She does, of course, because they're so well tuned, in sync, she often knows what he wants so say even before he does.

Her hand slips from his, reaches up to brush back his stressed hair, moves down to trace over his cheek bone, down to his jaw, soft skin over rough stubble.

"Want me to come?" she offers, eyes tracing his features, drinking him in, as if she's scared she'll forget him the minute he turns away. He captures her hand again, brings it to his mouth so he can brush his lips across her fingers.

"Not this time."

"Okay," she nods, offers a comforting smile, because it just is.

* * *

Molly wakes when the smell of toast wafts up the stairs, along the hallway, and teases her nose, makes her mouth water and stomach grumble. She blinks the sleep from her eyes, stretches out her body as she rolls onto her back, half expecting to find Charles where there is nothing but cold, stark sheets. Her eyes flick to the clock, heart skips a beat as she reads 8:18am, wonders, briefly, if he's already left without saying goodbye.

Any remnants of her slumber are forced to recede as panic pushes her to shove back the bedding and get out of bed, grab the pair of shorts she'd put aside for her morning workout . She scrapes her hair back into a messy top-knot, securing with the band she keeps on her wrist, before yanking open the wooden door and hurrying into the hallway that's still so new to her.

"He's in the kitchen, Dear," a small voice sounds behind her, makes Molly jump. She turns to face Mrs. James as she emerges from one of the many rooms - a guest room, an office, perhaps even _another_ bathroom - a laundry basket cradled in her arms.

"Thank you," Molly smiles, fingers tugging at the hem of the shorts she's wearing, trying to pull them down to cover more skin, as Mrs James begins to head up another flight of stairs. She waits a couple of seconds - just long enough to be sure Mrs. James isn't going to reply - before bounding down the large, ornate staircase.

She reaches the kitchen just in time to see Charles drain his mug of coffee, rinse it out and load it into the dishwasher. When he turns to look at her, his brows creases lightly and his eyes narrow, as if he's trying to work her out.

"Going for a run?" he eventually asks, just before the toast pops up in the toaster. He reaches for it, doesn't bother with butter before dipping his knife into an already open jar of crunchy peanut butter, and spreading a generous amount on each slice.

"No," Molly shakes her head, glances down at the shirt and shorts she's wearing. "Maybe," she amends. "What time are you leaving?"

"In a minute," he replies without looking at her, dips a clean knife into a tub of nutella and begins to messily layer it over the peanut butter.

"Okay." Molly rubs at her eyes, glances back down the long hallway, spots the large weekend bag on the floor by the front door. She wonders how she'd missed it, or how he'd managed to pack it without waking her this morning and then swallows, hard, as she realises that maybe he just didn't need to. Maybe he always kept a bag packed, put away somewhere, waiting, ready for him to grab at the drop of a hat, at a moments notice, just in case he needed to leave. Just in case he needed to leave _her_.

The thought twists her stomach and squeezes her heart, and she ignores the plate of toast Charles is pushing across the island counter towards her, doesn't pick it up as he quietly heads out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into the large living space. Molly tries to push back the realisation that he could just take off, disappear into the night, without a thought thrown her way, refuses to look at the offending bag as she follows after him.

She stands in the doorway, doesn't offer any words as she watches him stop still in the middle of the living room as he begins to pat down his body, as if searching for something, mumbling words too softly for Molly to hear.

"Keys?" Molly asks, as she spots them on the end table next to the sofa. She steps forward, swipes up the mess of metal and plastic.

"Yes, thank you," Charles says, nodding, crossing the small space between them in two strides. He kisses her forehead before taking the jangly items from her outstretched hand. It's the first time he's close enough for Molly to really look at him, to drink in his tired eyes, haunted with memories from the past, shadowed by regret and grief.

_Don't go. Stay here and we'll get wankered and cry it out and I'll try to make it all better_. She reaches up, her hand pressing against his rough cheek as she tries to find the courage to say what she really wants. "Did you eat something other than coffee?" she says instead, her hand dropping to her side.

"I'll grab something on the way, with Kinders," Charles replies, shaking his head as he steps past her, back out into the hallway.

"Kinders is going?" For some reason, she didn't expect that. If he can go, why can't she?

"Yeah, he knew Foggy better than I did," Charles answers as he slides his arms into the black peacoat. "I've got to go and pick him up at the train station."

"Okay," Molly nods as he pulls open the heavy door, steps out into the early morning air. She keeps quiet as he turns to face her, isn't sure on what to say, how to initiate their goodbye, isn't sure if she should hug him, or kiss him, when his mind is already a hundred and sixty miles away in Cornwall. Or maybe it's somewhere else entirely, somewhere in the past only he can reach, somewhere on the other side of the world.

"So, uh, text me as soon as you get there, okay?" she half requests, half orders, as the moment of silence stretches too long.

"I will," he promises as he drops the bag down by his feet, moves his hands to rest on her hips. She takes a deep breath, runs her hands over his body and wraps them around his shoulders, fingers playing with the soft hair at his nape.

"And no speeding. Speed kills," she points out, and Charles smirks, leans down as his arms snake around her, pulling her into him, brings his head to the dip in her neck.

"I know how to drive, Dawes," his body rumbles beneath her, sends shivers up her spine, and she grips onto him a little tighter, presses her body a little closer.

"I know," she says into his shoulder. "It's the other assholes on the road I'm worried about." He laughs at that, deep and throaty, breath tickling against the sensitive skin of her neck, and then his grip is loosening and he's stepping away, leaving too much distance between them. "Be careful." The twitch of her eyebrows, the widening of glassy eyes, keeps it from sounding a casual request but as the subtle plea it is.

"Of course," he nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching into a lopsided smirk. "Try not to cook, okay? Order a take away or something."

"Oi," she grins, playfully punching his chest. "What're you trying to say about my cooking?"

"That ration packs are a much safer option," he retorts, teasing, light hearted, and Molly mentally congratulates herself for taking the pain away in his eyes, even if it only lasts a few seconds. "I've got to go, if I'm going to make it in time. The guys from our regiment -"

"It's okay," Molly says softly. "You don't need to explain."

"Thank you." He moves his hands to her neck, thumb stroking the line of her jaw as he leans down, brushes his lips against hers once. "I'll see you -" he begins to say as he draws back, but Molly's hand is at the back of his neck, and she's reaching up onto the balls of her feet so she can crash her mouth back onto his. She kisses him with everything that she has, as if this is more than goodbye, as if this is the last time she'll ever get to see him again.

"Come back to me," she murmurs against him when they finally break for air, both panting, bodies humming as blood rushes through veins, hearts pounding so hard, they each wonder if the other can hear it.

"Always," he breathes, tilting so his forehead leans against hers as they catch their breath, and then he's taking a step back, the space between them cold and gaping, eyes smouldering as they land on hers for the last time, then he's bending to pick up the weekend bag at his feet and turning to hurry down the short, paved path.

She watches as he throws the bag onto the passenger seat, slides in behind the wheel and, all too soon, the engines roaring to life and he takes off, speeding down the small, quiet street adorned with silver birches and great oak trees. She stands, lets the warmth of the early sun tickle her skin for a few seconds, and then she's turning back into the empty house, closing the door softly behind her.


End file.
